


Nowhere Else

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Post-Destroy Ending, Reunions, Shepard Did Not Survive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: When it all comes down to it, there's only one place Steven Hackett wants to be when he's forced to take a leave of absence from the Alliance.





	Nowhere Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MalcolmInSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalcolmInSpace/gifts).



**Several years after the end of the Reaper War**  
~~~~~

The house Zaeed Massani has chosen to settle down in is on Benning. It sits on a coastal line of scrub brush and few trees with a view that stretches for kilometers in all directions. Difficult to approach without being spotted. Admiral Steven Hackett makes no attempt at stealth when he drives up to the house. And it is a proper, two-storied house; not a prefab conglomeration of modular units. It looks like something that should be sitting on the coast of Maine, not out in the hinterlands of space. He lands the skycar on a pad next to a shuttle and sits for a moment in the quiet of the car, listening to the engine tick as it cools. He sighs heavily and opens the door, grabbing a single duffle bag from the back seat.

A soft breeze shifts around him as he stands and looks at the house. A porch that stretches from one end to the other invites him to the front door. Gravel crunches under his shoes as he walks with a slow, measured pace, making his presence known, empty hand open at his side. He places one foot on the lowest step leading up to the porch, but reconsiders when he catches the whiff of cigar smoke on the breeze. He follows a path that leads around the house to the back and another porch, equally as long and half again as deep. Waves roll up onto the rocky shore 100 meters from the house. Benning has several small satellite moons, all smaller than Luna that affect the tide somehow. He catches another drift of cigar smoke and the regular creak of metal on metal, a sound he distantly remembers from his childhood of summers spent at his grandparent’s house and the back and forth groaning of their porch swing.

Zaeed lets him climb the steps uninterrupted, a paperback book that seemingly has his attention in one hand and a pistol pointed in his direction in the other. Hackett drops the duffle on the wooden porch floor and shows him his empty hands, which is when Zaeed looks up and gives him a thorough inspection. He takes in the civilian clothes: the khakis, the blue button down shirt, the light jacket. All had been a scramble to find; everything Hackett had owned had been on Arcturus Station and in the years since its destruction, there hadn’t been any time to accumulate much more than the bare minimum. All of which he’d managed to fit in the bag that lay at his feet.

“You look like hell.” Zaeed sets the pistol aside on a table and picks up the cigar, peering at him through the smoke. “What’s with the civvies?”

“I'm on vacation.”

Zaeed rolls his eyes. “Said Admiral Hackett never.”

Hackett shrugs and sighs. “Forced medical leave.” He’s pained to admit it. It feels like defeat. A hard truth to face: that he's more fallible and fragile than he would ever want to let other people see.

Zaeed's eyebrows raise at that, eyes wide with concern. “What the hell happened?”

“Heart attack.”

Zaeed studies him long and hard, mouth compressed in a tight line, the permanent creases in his brow cutting even deeper. In the stillness, Hackett notices the noise from the porch swing has stopped, Zaeed's feet resting fully on the floor. He feels awkward, standing at the edge of the porch under the other man's scrutiny, but doesn't move, doesn't look away. He's far too interested in Zaeed's reaction to this piece of news to turn his attention elsewhere. Even though the man's gaze pierces through him just as easily as a shot from his pistol would.

Whatever Zaeed is looking for, he eventually shakes his head and nods at the other end of the swing. “Better sit down, then.”

He sits on the bench with a sigh that feels like he’s expressing five years of stress and strain. He looks out over the blue-gray ocean, takes in the view that Zaeed has chosen. He can’t help but approve. It fits the retired mercenary: the solitude, the lack of anything except what was there before or what little Zaeed had had built there. Benning hadn’t escaped the Reapers, but they’d been far more interested in Arcturus Station and Sol beyond to bother the lowly populated agricultural planet. Most likely planning to come back to it at some point. There had been plenty of land after the war for Zaeed to buy up for cheap. Hackett’s unsure how much land exactly, but he knows it runs for hundreds of kilometers up and down the coast, and inland as well. A large buffer against the outside world.

“Gonna tell me what happened or do I have to guess?”

Hackett just stares out at the water. He’s numb with it all: the years of war, the years of clean-up, the deaths of so many across the galaxy. The death of his daughter. The neverending churning of always something that must needs doing and the weight of it that has rested on his shoulders, still rests because he can’t give it up while he’s still breathing. For the first time in he can’t even say how long, he has no list of things to do, no one knocking at his door demanding answers, no Ambassador breathing down his neck or Counselor ready to criticize every word. His mind, so used to being occupied with the immediacy of every single moment, struggles to find something to latch onto and when it can’t, his heart races in near panic, eyes searching the distant horizon for something, anything to seize on.

“Steven? Hey.” Zaeed’s voice gentles. He sets the book aside, turns toward him. Hackett can feel the solid presence of the other man next to him. He is, has always been, a veritable rock of solidity that has firmly entrenched into his mind ever since they’d first met in boot camp. “Shit. That bad, huh.”

He has to force himself to turn to look at Zaeed. He takes in the dark brown hair, growing ever more gray, the blurred and blinded eye he’s stubbornly refused to have fixed, the scar that pulls at his cheek and mouth. The young man he knew from so long ago is buried underneath, hiding under thick layers of scars and hard living and mistrust. Hackett shakes his head and turns back to the water.

“Can I stay here?” Hackett asks.

Zaeed draws on his cigar, a swirl of smoke dancing away from them. He’s quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says.

A tension eases that’s been coiled in his gut ever since leaving Earth, knowing he was going to show up uninvited, without any sort of message that he was even on his way. He nods and sighs and closes his eyes.

~~~~~

“You cook?” Hackett isn’t sure why this is a surprise, but leaning over the crockpot, smelling the roast that’s simmered all day, the evidence of cut up vegetables that surround it, the wilted thyme that lays on top, it hits him he’s never thought of Zaeed doing anything in any way domestic.

“Some things are born of necessity.” Zaeed gently pushes him aside and lifts the roast out, cutting it into thick slices. As if Zaeed knows what his doctor had recently told him, he fills their plates and hands the one with far more carrots and much less meat to Hackett. “I’ll make fish tomorrow,” he promises and Hackett nods. He hadn’t even thought about food or rations, even though it should have been at the forefront of his mind. His only thought had been getting to Benning.

Zaeed leads the way into the dining room and it nearly takes his breath away: a large, antique Mission table, dark and polished to a gloss; chairs upholstered in supple leather that are far more comfortable than they have any right to be; the sunset that glows in through the window, casting everything in a pinkish hue. “This is…” he stops himself short, anything he might say seems as if it might be an insult to how he’s perceived Zaeed’s taste—or rather, lack of taste—up until this point.

The other man gives him a look, as if he knows what he’s thinking. (Of course Zaeed knows what he's thinking. He's _always_ known.) He arches an eyebrow before he lifts Hackett’s plate and sets a placemat underneath. “Wine or whiskey?”

He wants both. He probably shouldn’t have either. “Whiskey.”

~~~~~

Jessie sits on a shelf, looking more like a museum piece than a weapon. He studies the gun carefully, noting the mods, the parts that have been replaced. So much of it has been repaired or altered in some way or another, he wonders aloud if any of it’s still original.

Zaeed leans against the wall. “Trigger,” he says. “And the grip.”

Hackett laughs and straightens, shaking his head. “Theseus’ ship.”

“What?”

“Theseus. Greek philosopher. If you sail a ship from one port to the next, with all the parts needed to build another ship inside, and replace all the parts of the first ship as you travel, do you arrive at the next port in the same ship? Or a new ship?” He points at Jessie. “Is she the same rifle I watched you buy on Omega? Or is she a new gun, with all those parts you’ve replaced?”

Zaeed sneers and tuts. As if the mere suggestion is heresy. “Trigger. And grip,” he says with a finality that ends the discussion.

~~~~~

Hackett offers to sleep on the sofa, once Zaeed admits he doesn’t have another bed.

But the other man shakes his head and leads him to his bedroom.

It’s strange, being in the same bed as Zaeed. He lays awkwardly, not sure what to do with his hands, trying to keep his legs and feet contained on his side. He stares up at the dark, aware of every small noise: the rustle of sheets as the other man moves, the soft sound of his breathing, the hum of the ceiling fan overhead. The whiskey from dinner pulses through his veins, makes him want to relax in ways he’s not sure either of them can deal with at the moment. Zaeed folds the sheet down—he feels the pull of it from off his shoulders—and clears his throat softly.

“Remember Old Hacksaw,” Zaeed asks in the quiet of the room.

“Hacksaw? Sergeant Hacksayer? From boot camp?”

“That’s the one. Ran into him not long ago.”

“He’s still alive? Christ.”

“Pretty sure it’s just piss and determination keeping him upright anymore.”

Hackett turns to try and study Zaeed’s profile, but the room is far too dark for that. His only sense of the other man’s presence is the weight of him in the bed. “Where the hell is he?”

“Ran into him in London. He’s been leading one of the veterans groups that’s been helping with rebuilding.” A huff of a laugh can be heard as Zaeed folds back the sheet once more. “Hell. He knew me right off. Powerful disturbing, I’ll tell you that. Thought he was gonna yell at me to drop and give him twenty.” Hackett can hear the sheets rustle as Zaeed readjusts himself. “Asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Said he never imagined your sorry ass would end up commanding the Alliance one day.” The man pauses, shifts again. “I said I’d figured you’d rather earn your stripes the hard way, still have all those other goddamn Admirals around.”

And isn’t that the fucking truth. He’d been content to lead the Fifth Fleet. Hadn’t planned on any further advancement. But the destruction of Arcturus had seen to that. The war had seen to that. He’d been forced to take command, the other Admirals culled by the Reapers uncaring hand. There had been no one else.

His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to be able to find Zaeed’s profile. He turns to his side, bunching the pillow up under his neck. “You’re right about that. Never wanted it. Not this way anyway. Hell.” It makes no sense to him, that he ended up where he had.

He imagines Shepard felt that way all the time as well, right up until the end. How could she have not? Thrown into crisis after crisis. Being raised from the dead like a goddamn miracle. For one brief moment he thinks of his daughter, her remains laying two meters under, and wishes he had the might to try and bring her back the way Cerberus had brought back Shepard. Surely her charred body, finally found under the rubble of Thessia two weeks before, was no worse off than Shepard’s had been. The aching hope of it churns his stomach.

“Rebecca is dead.”

It’s the first time he’s said the words out loud. Internally, he’s been screaming them over and over and over since the news had been brought to him ten days ago, when he’d held the datapad in shaking fingers, the words blurring, running together until nothing made sense and he feared nothing would ever make sense again; when his chest had tightened and he’d clutched at his clothes as if trying to dig through his ribs and squeeze his seizing muscle.

“Shit.” Zaeed tsks. “Very sorry to hear that. Shit.” He says again.

He closes his eyes, tips his head back. He tells him about how she’d been MIA since Thessia had fallen. How he’d never been able to give up hope that she was somehow still alive. He clung to that hope every day for two years. “It's not supposed to be this way. Life isn't supposed to be like this. Malevolent AI’s aren't supposed to appear out of dark space and destroy everything we've built. Daughters aren't supposed to die before their parents. What the hell happened, Zaeed?”

The man is silent for a long time. “Galaxy went to hell,” he says eventually. “Only goddamn thing we could do was fight. That or roll the fuck over. I’m sorry about Rebecca. Truly I am. What about Gabe? He still…?” His pause is breathless, as if anticipating the worst news.

“He’s okay,” Hackett says quickly. “He’s in Rio with his wife. At The Villa.” He sighs. He could have easily gone to stay with them. Gabriel’s wife, Charlotte, is the type of person Hackett has always wished for his son: warm and welcoming, with enough humor to cajole his son out of his tendency towards dark moods. But their relationship has never been what anyone would call easy. They’re too similar and tend to butt heads when together: anything from military strategy to personal music preferences. He loves his son, but he can’t take being around him for more than a few days. Three months of leave would be impossible.

“The Villa? N7 training?”

He nods. “He’s made it to N3. Tough bastard. Instructors tell me he’s on par with Shepard for completing the course. I try to...stay out of his military career. He changed his name to Cynthia’s maiden name before he joined up. Didn’t want it known he was my son, since I was Rear Admiral by then. Wanted to make it on his own and I can’t blame him for that. Still. Eventually it became known who he’s related to. But he got into The Villa on his own merit. He’s a damned genius when it comes to strategy.”

“Like father, like son.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Damned sure somebody would. Probably in a history book.”

He cringes at the suggestion. “They’re better off writing about Shepard and leaving me out of it.”

Zaeed is quiet, his breathing even and deep. He slides a hand underneath his pillow. He says, “Flirted with her once.”

“You _what_? With Shepard? And lived?”

Zaeed laughs softly. “That goddamn party on the Citadel. ‘Parently I flirted with a lot of people that night.” The man turns on his side toward him, close enough that Hackett can feel the warmth of him. “Shepard. Samara. Garrus...Might have had a bit too much to drink.”

Hackett grins at Zaeed’s shadow. “Would have loved to have seen that.”

“Yeah, no. You wouldn’t’ve.”

He laughs. “Zaeed Massani flirting with Commander Jane Shepard? I’m pretty sure I would.”

The only sound is the two of them softly laughing for a moment and then Zaeed shakes his head. “She was a goddamn piece of work, that one. No one else quite like her.” Hackett feels the light brush of Zaeed’s finger on his arm when he moves. The touch is electric, sending a shockwave up his arm and through his body. “Talk about your goddamn Greek ship. How much of her was left when Cerberus brought her back?”

He hates to think of that time after her death. He feels complicit in her resurrection: knowing what Liara was up to and wondering about the ethics of it, yet doubting that it would go anywhere at all until she’d presented herself in front of Anderson, dropping twenty dogtags in his hand. Anderson had told him later it was like seeing a ghost for the first time, coming to believe in all the old myths in one mad rush. If it was truly possible to raise someone from the grave, then surely Zeus would make an appearance next.

There had been no doubt in his mind that she was herself. There had been something indescribable about Jane Shepard: a determination and drive, but a softness as well, particularly when it came to her crew. He had seen none of that change from two years previous.

“Trigger and grip,” Hackett says and Zaeed coughs a hoarse laugh.

“She told me once she never understood why you trusted her. After that whole mess with the goddamn batarians.”

His face falls instantly. He’s always regretted that mission; the fact of it, the necessity of it. Especially regretted sending her in alone. But even if she’d had back-up, who’s to say it would have turned out any differently. Amanda and the rest of her crew would still have been indoctrinated. Destroying the relay may still have been the only option in delaying the Reapers. And the fact of the matter is, he wouldn’t change sending her. She had been the right person for the job. And he trusted her.

“Hey.” Zaeed’s hand comes to rest on his arm.

“You know the worst part of being in command? Sending good soldiers into a situation you know they may never live through.” He closes his eyes, can picture Shepard standing in front of him clear as day. Her personality was so forceful, she had always been so completely present. “And she never balked. Not once. You know why I trusted her? Because she trusted me. And if you don’t think I regret abusing that trust every goddamn time I sent her on a mission, then—”

Zaeed’s hand lightly squeezes his arm. “It was your job. Don’t know how you did it, but you did. Probably saved all our asses many times over.”

“By being a hard ass.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what you signed up for. That’s what you’re good at.”

Hackett sighs. “You know how many times I regret not leaving the Alliance and joining up with you? You know how hard it was to not leave Cynthia and the kids? Especially after I found out about that whole thing that went down with Vido. Fuck, I...there were some days, I’d have dropped it all if you’d have called and asked.”

Zaeed shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. Cynthia maybe. Rebecca and Gabe? Hell no, you wouldn’t have.”

_He doesn't know how he knows it’s Zaeed, even after so many years. He just does. Something about the set of his shoulders, the back of his head, the movement of his feet. His heart pumps hard and he stands for a moment at the bar, the noise of the Citadel dulling around him. The man is wearing shining, bright new yellow armor, chatting with what appear to be a small group of salarian and turian mercenaries. Hackett freezes in place, his fingers tight on the glass raised halfway to his lips. He can’t take his eyes off him, watches carefully as he interacts, taps his omnitool and nods, turns away. And that’s when he sees the scars that cut through the side of his face, note the eye clouded with blindness. He swallows and nearly drops his glass._

_The man stops mid-stride, as if aware of the intensity of someone’s gaze on him. He scans the crowd carefully, taking in everyone and everything until his eyes finally land on Hackett, poised with his glass and stricken face. Zaeed shakes his head and scowls, but he walks over and stands in front of him. Up close, Hackett can see the scar is years old and his heart aches for the pain it must have caused. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching out and running his fingertip down the length of it._

_He sets the glass down. If he holds it any tighter he’ll crush it into a thousand pieces. He looks closer and sees the wariness in Zaeed’s eyes, the exhaustion and sadness. “What the hell happened?”_

_The man shrugs and leans up against the bar. “Friend tried to kill me.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal to have a friend try to take his life. But Hackett sees the tightness at his mouth, the grinding muscles of his jaw._

_“I hope to high hell this ‘friend’ is dead.”_

_“Not yet. But he will be.” Zaeed turns his head to look at him with his good eye. “Haven’t exactly managed to keep your own goddamn pretty face tidy.” He nods at the scar that cuts down Hackett’s cheek and lip._

_Hackett reaches up and touches it, feels the dulled nerve endings tingle. “Gift from a krogan’s knife.” He drops his hand on the bar. “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened? Contact me?”_

_“To do what? Have you kiss it and make it better?” Zaeed’s laugh is bitter. “Lot of things Captain Hackett can do, but kissing goddamn boo-boos probably isn’t on his list of assigned duties—”_

_“Come on, Zaeed—” Hackett’s hand lands on the other man’s arm, holds tight to the slick yellow armor._

_“‘Come on,’ what? What the fuck do you want? You’ve got your life. I’ve got mine, such as it goddamn fucking is. Don’t need anyone to coddle me.” He spits the words out, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t remove Hackett’s hand from his arm._

_“You sure about that?”_

_The air is electric between them. The intensity of Zaeed’s gaze takes his breath away. The naked lust. The yearning. It’s instant; as if they hadn’t been separated by years and circumstance._

_“What about Cynthia?”_

_For a moment, he can’t remember who the hell Cynthia is. And then—Oh. Yes. His wife. She’s far away, on Arcturus Station caring for their two children. He should feel badly for what he’s about to say, what he’s about to do. But searching Zaeed’s eyes, he just can’t find it in himself to do so. “To hell with Cynthia.”_

_And later, when Hackett is checking out of the hotel, feeling agonizingly sore and overwhelmingly relaxed, hiding a hickey that Zaeed had chewed into his flesh, he realizes he’d never told Zaeed about his promotion to Captain._

_So how the hell had he known?_

“Those years we were—” he doesn’t say ‘apart’, because had they ever really been together? Together as in: A Couple?—”we didn’t see each other. I’ve always regretted. How many years went by.”

It had angered him. Zaeed and Vido starting up that gang. He wished then, and he wishes now, there had been some way to intervene. But how could he have done that without any sort of neutrality? He knew full well he couldn’t have.

And he had married Cynthia; sometimes wondering if it hadn’t been for spite. To show Zaeed he didn’t need him. (When he always, _always_ needed him.) The two of them being together in any sort of committed way would have been disastrous to them both. He remembers Zaeed’s wildness and willfulness. His single-minded wanderlust. Being tied to an Alliance officer would have killed him slowly or driven them both mad.

Once out of basic, they’d both volunteered for a squad whose mission had been pure exploration beyond the relay. It had become clear early on that Zaeed needed space like he needed air. He devoured planets and the black void between them, always needing to see more, find more. There was a fire in him that Hackett couldn’t tear himself away from; warming his skin and burning his retinas, throwing himself at the flame that could burn him and not caring.

He still doesn’t care.

He remembers their first time. Fresh out of basic, a band of them had gone out to a bar. He’d had far more to drink than he ever had before, his head swimming pleasantly. Someone had pulled him out onto the dance floor, into the middle of a mass of sweating, writhing bodies. He’ll never be clear how Zaeed had ended up writhing up against him, his hand heavy on his hip, that ever-present smirk on his lips.

_...the press and closeness, music drumming through him, bright green eyes steady on him and he can’t deny the attraction that’s been building, amazed that perhaps it’s returned by this enigma of a man. Zaeed’s chest is against his, their shirts damp with sweat and a heat that threatens to send him into oblivion, seems to come from inside and out. Hard hands hold him up, slide around him to cup his ass, hips thrusting to the tribal urges of the music, a hot mouth on his neck. His head reels with it all—the heat, the music, the bodies around him, the alcohol that throbs through his veins. He hooks his fingers through Zaeed’s belt loops, drops his head on his shoulder, and grinds his hips, his heart threatening to escape his chest._

_“Wanna get outta here?” Zaeed’s voice vibrates against his eardrum, his lips pressed to the shell of his ear._

_“Yeah.” He nods. He can feel Zaeed’s need through their clothes. His fingers tremble with excitement and trepidation._

_Zaeed takes his hand, guides him out of the morass of bodies, cool air hits him and clears his head. The other man turns, eyes hot and needy on him. He tightens his grip on Zaeed’s hand and nods. Outside the club they pause for only a moment and then Zaeed is leading him down the street, around a corner, his steps quick and urgent. “Here.” He pushes him back against a concrete wall, lips on his in a kiss that is less artful than desperate and sloppy, but Hackett doesn’t care. He only knows he needs._

_He’s surprised to feel Zaeed’s fingers tremble as they tug at his fly. He opens his eyes, watches Zaeed as he looks down between their bodies. He pushes his hips forward, encouraging the other man to explore. And then he’s hard in his hand, boxers pushed down just enough to release him into the night air. “Goddamn…”_

Some lonely nights, the memory alone has been enough to get him worked up all over again, to make him reach for himself. Tonight is no different. He’s half hard while the other man lays beside him. Why doesn’t he just reach for Zaeed? Pull him close, let him know how much he needs him? The centimeters that separate them feel like a gulf. He knows intellectually it’s the years they’ve known each other, everything that’s happened between boot camp and now. So much thick morass to swim through.

“You never forgave me for marrying Cynthia,” he says. It’s not the first thing on his mind, so he’s surprised when he says it. The truth of the matter is he never forgave Zaeed for starting up that gang with Vido. Most certainly never forgave Vido for trying to kill him (just the flitting thought of it makes him grit his teeth in anger).

“Goddamnit…” Zaeed’s voice is tight. He sits up in a jerk, throwing the covers off. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but doesn’t get up completely. “We never would have worked. Not then.”

“So why—”

“Don’t you get it? Goddamn thick headed…” Zaeed mutters, covers his face with his hand, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

Hackett doesn’t say anything, but he sits up because this seems like something he shouldn’t take lying down. “Perhaps you need to explain it to me, then.”

“Shit.” Zaeed swears under his breath. Then he’s standing, pacing his side of the bed, prowling and swearing.

“I don’t have to stay, if this is so distressful for you.”

“Don’t you _fucking_ move,” he points a finger at him, stopping for one brief moment before resuming his pacing. “Godfuckingdamnit, Steven—You just had to come here and stir all this shit up. You know how hard I’ve worked to move as far away from people as I can without making myself a goddamn hermit living in a cave? And then you waltz in here and just...Fuck. Throw it all out the window because I can’t deny you anything. Never been able to. I had to get out. I couldn’t stay in the Alliance. Knew you’d bloody well…” He spits out a nonsense bark of frustration. “Couldn’t just throw it all away because I had fucking _feelings_ for you. There was an entire fucking galaxy just laid out at our feet. You think I wouldn’t have given that all up if you’d have asked?”

“I never—”

“You would have.” He doesn’t shout, not exactly. But the words are loud enough in the darkness that they hit Hackett so hard he’s knocked back. He rights himself and knows the truth of it. He would have been selfish enough to have asked Zaeed to give up everything. He swallows, his throat thick with the shame of it.

“You don’t seem to realize, there was nothing to goddamn forgive. You think I can’t add up the math? I start a gang that you never have approved of and you go off and marry the first woman that will have you? I hated her. Even more after Vido tried to kill me,” he stops and runs his hand through his hair. “She had you and I had a fucked-up face full of lead.”

His heart thumps heavy in his chest (a different feeling from before, ten days ago when his chest had tightened, but the same feeling of dread knowing in an instant the inevitable would eventually catch up with him). His blood chills at Zaeed’s words. He had loved Cynthia, but he would have left her without a second thought if Zaeed had asked. And maybe deep down she had known, without knowing Zaeed or that he even existed, that she was playing second fiddle to someone else. Certainly she came after the Alliance. He’d tried. God knows especially after the children were born, he’d tried to forget the name and face of Zaeed Massani. Especially after that one night on the Citadel. He’d convinced himself he’d managed for a while. Even after she’d given up and filed for divorce: _“You’re married to the Alliance more than you’ll ever be married to me.”_ It had been a convenient deception he’d allowed her to believe. He’d pushed himself into work even more than before, buried himself in the Alliance like a blanket.

When he’d seen Zaeed’s name on Shepard’s list of crew on the SR-2, it had all flooded back in.

They’d come face-to-face after Aratoht, Zaeed defiantly blocking his escape from the ship. “Remember after Aratoht? My god. You can’t know how I was of two minds. I knew you were on that ship and all I wanted to do was turn over every crate until I found you and yet...I had to debrief Shepard and hope to high hell somehow there would be a way to see you. Knowing I couldn’t just…”

Zaeed sighs, but Hackett continues on, “So many years. Too much...shit. Fuck, that was so awkward.”

Zaeed huffs a sour laugh. “God, you’re a fucking coward. That’s fucking bullshit and you know it. You could have asked right then and everything would have been forgotten and forgiven.”

“You say that, but you were about to go through the Omega 4 relay—”

“Don’t blame that fucking suicide mission for my goddamn generous feelings,” Zaeed snaps. “You think I didn’t miss you? Want to be with you? Every. Goddamn. Fucking. _Day_.” He grinds the words out, pointing at Hackett. “There’s never been a day I didn’t regret…” And by the way he stops, it’s obvious there has been too much to regret. To speak them all would take another lifetime.

“Zaeed…” His heart breaks at that, hurts even more than any heart attack ever could. He sighs and closes his eyes, hanging his head over his knees. How had he been such a damned fool? The bed sinks down as Zaeed sits on the edge with a heavy sigh.

_“At least have a goddamn drink with me. We’re on the Citadel all the fucking time.” Zaeed crosses his arms, the set of his mouth defiant, but his eyes plead._

_Of course he says yes. How can he not? Hackett’s ache for him is a constant in his core that he’s learned to live with, an old wound that alters his step and makes his muscles burn._

_Their meeting is awkward. Hackett wants to hug the other man to him, his relief still fresh at the success of Shepard’s mission through the relay. The yellow armor is chipped and faded, dented in places and repaired in others. He studies the circling pattern of Zaeed’s tattoos down his arm, wonders when he’d added to it. Ice melts in his whiskey, sweat beading and sliding down the side of their glasses. He wants to press the side of the glass to his cheek, cool the raging heat that he’s sure Zaeed could see coming off him in waves._

_“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says. It’s so inadequate to how he feels, but true nonetheless._

_Zaeed, too, is keyed up over their survival. His grin is wild and roguish. “Better fucking believe it.” As if he would ever not survive._

_He looks down at the table, studies the space that separates their hands. So close. He’s so close. And yet it might as well be the entire galaxy._

“Why come here?” Zaeed asks, his voice so soft Hackett has to strain to hear it.

He thinks of the few places he could have gone: to his son in Rio; to his grandparent’s--and now his--ranch on the plains of Argentina; the lonely apartment in Vancouver. “This is the only place I want to be,” he says.

He rolls to his side, his back to Zaeed. He feels the shift in the bed as Zaeed lays back down. The air is heavy between them, so many things left unsaid. They’re both too proud, too set in their ways. This has always been the problem. And yet...

And yet he isn’t stupid. He knows how short life is. How uncertain it all is. He’s always loved Zaeed’s fierce pride, even as it dragged them both down and away from each other. He reaches out behind him, underneath the bedclothes and touches his finger to Zaeed’s wrist, feels the warmth of his skin. He resists the urge to press harder, to search for the secret tempo of his heart.

Minutes pass. He knows Zaeed is still awake, otherwise he'd be snoring—a side effect of Vido’s treachery. He's almost asleep himself when the bed shifts and the other man rolls toward him, sliding up along his back, spooning him. His arm folds him close and Hackett sighs, pressing back against him.

Zaeed kisses him, presses his lips to his spine, just at the base of his neck. His breath catches at the tenderness of the touch. He hopes Zaeed will never stop surprising him.

“I'm glad you're here,” he says softly.

Hackett hears the sincerity in his voice, the rough catch of emotion. He covers the hand on his chest and nods. “Me too.”

  
_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Goddamnit, I love writing these two. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
